The Liquor Vicar Read online

  “I just wanted to inform you that we won’t be moving ahead with charges against you. Our investigation has revealed that Mr. Johnson had assaulted his partner earlier that day, and he has a sufficiently long record of domestic violence and other assaults that we feel you acted in self-defence, as you have asserted. As far as we are concerned, it’s a closed matter.”

  Vicar took a long, relieved breath. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Tony.”

  “Seriously, though … is his name really Randy Johnson?”

  There was silence at the other end for a moment, then Con-Con let out a loud snort.

  Twenty-Three / Day-O

  The show is standing room only. He floats above the audience, observing them. The stadium is massive. He suddenly finds himself on deck, side stage, but he can’t get to his position. His feet are stuck to the floor. Someone slings a guitar over his shoulder. Oh no, it is a left-handed guitar — he has no idea how to play it! The song begins. He tries to play chords with the wrong hand but can’t do it. A spotlight lights him up brilliantly, and he realizes then that he has no clothes on …

  Vicar awoke with a start and glanced over to his left, where Jacquie lay sleeping. He hoped to just lie in for a few minutes. Once Jacquie was up, there would be no avoiding the day, but until then, he could cheat a little. He winced when his stomach gurgled loudly, as though it had just said, “Bryan.”

  Feeling nature’s call, he gingerly slid out of bed, taking every caution not to wake Jacquie. She was on her side, facing away from him. If he did this correctly, he’d be able to get back in bed and sleep a little longer, maybe get to the bottom of that silly dream. To his surprise, he managed to thread the needle: he didn’t wake her, and he avoided that noisy floorboard that also seemed to say “Bryan” when you stepped on it. It struck him that he had once hiked past a sheep that had similarly seemed to call out that name, and he tried to put it all together. Were those funny mushrooms on the pizza last night? Oy.

  In nothing but a ghastly pair of tighty-whities with a blown-out arse — just like every other pair of underwear he owned — Vicar silently padded toward the bathroom, noticing that they had forgotten to close the curtains before they went to sleep last night. Happily, light was streaming in; the morning was bright and clear. He brushed by the end table and knocked a magazine onto the floor, then bent over deeply to pick it up, in the process stretching taut his regrettable underwear and baring most of his glaringly untanned bum.

  There was a loud hail and cheer from the outdoors. Badly startled, Vicar shot up and looked behind him, through the window. To his utter shock, the front lawn was crowded with people sitting cross-legged, many of them now rising to their feet in an ovation, a greeting better suited to a conquering hero. Dozens of strangers were gathered on his front lawn, apparently just dying to say hello. Some sat in the lotus position like a scene cut and pasted from a Summer of Love flashback. Realizing the state of his undress and his recent Freddie Mercury–style genuflection, Vicar shrieked a little and fell to the floor in mortification, then panther-crawled back to Jacquie and safety, as if someone had lobbed a grenade.

  Racing on hands and knees to the bedside, he grabbed Jacquie and shook her in a panic.

  “Jack, Jack … people.” He was at a loss for words.

  She rolled over and grunted, “Huh?”

  “People. There.” He grunted and gestured at the window like a startled Neanderthal.

  Jacquie blinked a couple of times and attempted to size up the situation. Half awake and half mocking, she pointed at the window and said, “People?”

  “People.” His eyes were rimmed with alarm.

  Amused, Jacquie rolled out of bed clad in Vicar’s only remaining clean T-shirt, pulled apart the slats of the blinds, and peered out. Then she shrieked.

  ---

  Ross Poutine pulled a cupped hand full of loonies and toonies out of his pocket and dumped the coins onto the bar table in a loud cascade.

  “Looks like about twenny-fie bucks, dere … We can hava coupla beers.”

  Vicar looked at the coinage. “Uh, okay. But I have to drive. Not too much.”

  Poutine growled, but assented.

  “So, what the hell happened?” he asked once they’d gotten their drinks.

  Vicar paused and collected his thoughts. “I’ll be goddamned if I know, Ross. We came home from the movie and she was just there, naked as a jaybird, waiting for me in the dark. Jacquie flipped and beat the living hell out of her.”

  Poutine smiled tightly and looked down at the floor. “That’s m’girl …”

  “Well, yeah. She’s no pushover, but God almighty, what a horrible scene. Total destruction of my little house!”

  Vicar wasn’t delighted about the violent antics. Things could have gone terribly badly. But he wasn’t about to go in that conversational direction with Poutine at this moment in time. Poutine was tops on the straightaway, but his cornering could be a little ungainly.

  “Aw shit, they ain’t gonna hurt each other …”

  “Ross, I have to disagree. You should have seen it. They both wanted blood.”

  “That’s kinda a com-pluh-munt, doncha think?”

  “I’d very happily go uncomplimented …”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want to know. Apparently, her name is Serena something or other. Bad news. She’s been in trouble with the cops since she was a kid. I think she’s a professional stalker or something. At any rate, she was naked and waiting for me. By herself. That takes balls! I have to conclude that she’s dead serious about it. She must have seen the news coverage and gotten some crazy ideas …”

  Just then a shapely woman drifted by, undulating in a very comely manner.

  “Hi, Tony,” she purred with a suggestive smile.

  Vicar responded automatically, “Uh, hi there.” But, after the words had come out, he took note of her posture and her eyes laser-targeting him. He felt exposed under a spotlight and turned his attention back to Poutine immediately, discomfort surging.

  “Wow. She wantsa piece-o-you.” Poutine was half admiring, half concerned.

  “See? It’s starting to happen everywhere I go.”

  “Wail …” Poutine yawned and stretched grandly. “I’d sayz ya better keep yer feet on th’ ground. Stay close to Jacquie. She’ll beat ya inta shape.” He grinned.

  A joke, yet it seemed right to Vicar. He pursed his lips and nodded in agreement.

  “My worry is that she’ll be frightened off. Weirdness is flying at us from all directions. I don’t even know what to expect from hour to hour …”

  Poutine just shrugged wordlessly and half smiled.

  The waitress delivered two vodka sodas. “Courtesy of the gentleman in the corner.” She pointed at the man with her chin. He smiled at Vicar, giving him a little wave with his fingers.

  Vicar glanced at Poutine, whose face was scrunched up questioningly.

  “You know that guy, Tony?”

  Vicar waved and smiled back, laughing inwardly. Fibbing to Poutine would save a lot of awkward conversational heartache. “Yeah, yeah. We went to school together.”

  ---

  Serena was lying on a foam mattress on the floor of the microbus, thinking. Her minions were off doing her bidding. Serena Vicar, Serena Kimi Vicar, Mrs. Serena K. Vicar, Madame Vicar, Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Vicar … She was beginning to feel more confident that Tony Vicar had the magic to carry her to the top of the mountain, above all the voices. Sometimes she talked back to them, but they said ugly things, and it made her want to hurt other people and herself. She turned on her side and caught a glimpse out the window of birds orbiting high above her; eagles, by the looks of them. She watched their dreamy circles, brought her knees up to her chin, and drifted off to sleep.

  ---

  Vicar strolled over to the post office and checked the box for Liquor. A few bills, a small handful of flyers, and a handwritten envelope addressed in
care of the store, but meant for him, marked “Private and Confidential.” How odd. The return address was in Halifax, and the postmark confirmed it. Suddenly burning with curiosity, he started back toward the store, opening the envelope while he walked. A letter.

  It was written in ballpoint pen in a light, shaky hand. Judging by the cursive the author was a woman, likely in her seventies. It was short.

  Dear Mr. Vicar, I have read about you in the papers and I wanted to ask you to help me. My husband is sick, and I am not strong enough to take care of him. Can you use your powers to do something?

  Paper-clipped to the letter was a ten-dollar bill. Vicar stopped dead right in the middle of the parking lot, stunned. He began to cry.

  Twenty-Four / Tight, White, and

  Strangely Right

  There were eggs on the kitchen counter right next to a carburetor. The ledge over the sink was crowded with springs, levers, old screws, a screwdriver, and a stained easel-back calendar from 1976. That had been a good year.

  Poutine sometimes soaked auto parts in the kitchen sink with acrid solvents, often while preparing food; not that he cooked per se. He did warm things up. Boil water. Fry something now and then.

  The place was a dump. It was an old mobile home that he’d bought from a logger for five hundred dollars. He’d lived in it for decades. He’d put up a roll of snow fence around it in a lame attempt to fashion a front yard; flower beds — or a couple of strips of dirt, more like — lay awaiting something to be planted in them.

  For some unknown reason there was a blue plastic kiddie pool and a couple of sun-damaged lawn chairs off to the side. Most would have described the place as a ruin, really, even though he owned ten acres of forest outright. Beside the portable was a rustic garage that held his beloved Chevelle and an array of tools and machines that would have left any backyard mechanic drooling. Nearby was the hulk of another Chevelle, stripped of parts and covered in an old canvas tarpaulin.

  ---

  As she bumped slowly down the rutted path to Poutine’s house, Jacquie O scanned the property. No goats in evidence. She wrinkled her nose and squinted. Surely, he didn’t keep them in the mobile home. That smell had to come from somewhere, though.

  Poutine came out from behind the Chevelle, which had its hood up. He leaned over and peered down inside, the crack of his ass writ large. Jacquie smiled.

  A minute later, she followed Poutine up the aging wooden steps to his door and was immediately assaulted by the stale air inside. Cringing inwardly, she noticed that her eyes stung momentarily.

  Whatever the name of this colour combo of beige and kitchen grease was, its patina emblazoned the interior of the glorified garage-cum-kennel. Gingerly perching on the lone stable kitchen chair, she began to speak.

  “I’m worried about this weird woman, Ross. This Serena person. She is very dangerous.” The hard, flat interior surfaces amplified her voice.

  “Yup. I seen her hangin’ around the shop with her gang a few days ago. She is ridin’ buckshot over you guys.”

  Jacquie stared off to the right for a moment until she deciphered his most recent mondegreen. Riding ROUGHSHOD. Right.

  On the wall was a thing… a crude attempt to construct a dreamcatcher, she presumed. It looked like it was made out of a coat hanger and some unravelled sock yarn. She was struck by the inexplicable concatenation of Ross Poutine and his homespun dreamcatcher. There was a clump of long, truly vile-looking hair hanging from it, too, and suddenly Jacquie didn’t want to continue looking in that direction. The jarring incongruity of it all uncoupled her train of thought for an instant.

  After a moment, she gathered her thoughts. “If she comes into the shop, call the cops right away, try to contact Con-Con. This woman could really make trouble for Tony.”

  “I figure it’s you that’s in trouble. Supposably she likes her a little Vicar. I think you might be in her road.”

  Poutine was right. This guy. Kind, generous, and surprisingly sensitive, but with the social graces of a bag of mud hitting the sidewalk from a great height. He was so rough around the edges that most people dismissed him out of hand.

  Jacquie glanced over toward the end of the room and saw what appeared to be a small altar that held a few crystals and figurines, candles and incense. Despite their presence, her nose could sense no evidence of anything besides the usual pong.

  She knew she’d felt drawn here to speak with Poutine for more reasons than his daily proximity to Vicar. There was wisdom bubbling under the surface. He just struggled to verbalize what he so accurately perceived. He was a man of simple, direct actions, not subtle, tactical words.

  As for that horror show, Serena, she might try to manipulate Vicar, get him into bed. But she probably wants to kill me. Like, actually murder me. Jacquie wondered if the woman suffered from borderline personality disorder.

  “I’ll be careful, and I’ll make sure the doors are always locked,” she said.

  “Weren’t the doors locked at Tony’s place?”

  She looked at Poutine and sighed. He was right again. This was a dangerous situation.

  “Oh, damn, Ross … I don’t know what to do.” She put her hands to her head.

  Poutine shrugged and looked around. “Well, you can stay here if you want …”

  Jacquie had to control her natural response to that. It was kind and generous of him to offer, but if she were honest about it, she would rather face mortal combat again than stay in a place this awful.

  “Uhhh … if I hide, then she’s won, hasn’t she?” She hoped this was enough to gloss over her unwillingness to stay there.

  “Well if she comes at yuz, y’can defend yourself.”

  “I already defended myself. Look at the results.” She still bore the discoloration of the blackened eyes.

  “Aw shit. That ain’t nothing. That’s a Saturday night in Port Alberni.”

  ---

  “Betty, that must be the twentieth pair of used underwear I’ve sold today.”

  Elaine glanced over her readers at her fellow Goodwill volunteer.

  Betty cackled and pointed out the glass storefront. “Look! They’re wearing them over their pants, like Superman with a blown-out crotch!”

  Peals of laughter erupted from the two middle-aged women.

  The small herd of kids outside horsed around and laughed as they donned their new purchases. They were just following the latest trend. Wanting to emulate their local celebrity, the Liquor Vicar, they thought blown-out tighty-whities were the height of hipness, and good luck to boot.

  ---

  In the backseat, Jacquie was going over her to-do list aloud. “Celery, buns, Tylenol, post office … I think that’s all of it. Too bad we can’t stop and have a piece of lemon meringue pie.” She cheerfully pointed at the old coffee shop, now closed.

  Frankie Hall looked out the window of the Peugeot. “Did you know that Bill and I bought the Agincourt years ago?”

  Vicar glanced at Jacquie as they passed the old hotel.

  “We left Jack Dumont in charge, but we bought a majority stake in ’72,” Frankie continued. “And then we bought him out entirely just before Bill died. We had great plans for the place, but once he was gone, I lost interest.”

  “But I thought old Venables was the owner,” Vicar said.

  “No, Bill hired him to be the custodian and gave him a free place to live. He had a soft spot for the old coot. He was just a scallywag drifting around, doing odd jobs. I’ve owned it all these years. It’s a shame that I never prettied it up, but it always seemed to pay for itself, even if it was ugly as the ass end of a horse.” She snorted. “Men would drink beer standing over an open septic tank …”

  Vicar chuckled ruefully. “Someone told me it might get demolished now that Venables is gone.”

  “I suppose that’s possible. The land is prime and worth a fortune compared to the twenty-five thousand we paid for the whole thing back then. But I haven’t decided, other than letting it close for the time being
. I just don’t want to keep it open without Venables. It’s awfully rundown.”

  Vicar could hear the regret in her voice. It seemed that she had had plans for it all those years ago. But you could never know when your well-laid plans would be altered by an unforeseen turn.

  They merged onto the parkway.

  Frankie cleared her throat and said wistfully, “The only other place to get a cold beer now is way out at the Trapper five miles away. What kind of town doesn’t have a beer parlour?”

  She was asking rhetorically, but Vicar piped up. “It’s not a town if it doesn’t have a pub.”

  Twenty-Five / Cygnus X-1

  Farley could barely believe his eyes as he rubbernecked around Jacquie’s house. It was so tidy! It smelled good, too. He had come over with Vicar for a little evening get-together. Vicar had brought some wine from the shop, and they were now gathered in Jacquie’s cozy living room, sitting around the coffee table, which held a bowl of wax fruit. Vicar had made sure to point it out before Farley could take a bite. Next to Farley was an ornamental tree wrapped in tiny, cheery lights.

  “Tony,” Jacquie said, “this underwear thing is really, uhhh, weird. It’s like we’re living in a cartoon. Something really strange is happening.”

  Vicar had always felt life was a cartoon, but for him the last couple of years had been a gloomy graphic novel, better suited to angst-ridden outliers. “I know. Six months ago, I couldn’t get arrested …” He trailed off.

  Now I’m a freaky superhero, my every word a pearl of wisdom. If I trip on the sidewalk it becomes a fad. Ugh.

  They were all staring at the cover of a gossip magazine called E-Obsession, which featured a close-up photo of him and Jacquie leaving the grocery store — a baguette was sticking out of the bag and partially obscuring his face — followed by a small cadre of straggling onlookers wearing old underwear over their pants. The headline read, “It’s Official! Liquor Vicar Shops with Jacquie O.”